“Werry likely,” retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose.  “I’m a forting to the public-’ouse, I am, an’ it’s the on’y pleasure I ’ave in my life, cuss it.”

The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, so that they should not break their heads.  As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, “The Last Rose of Summer.”

The street door was open, and, after groping their way along the dark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.

“Thank heaven,” said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath.  “Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!”

“At all events, our journey has not been wasted,” said the detective, as they walked along.  “We’ve found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was on the night of the murder, so he will be safe.”

“That depends upon Sal Rawlins,” answered Calton, gravely; “but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life.”

CHAPTER XVI.

MISSING.

The next day Kilsip called at Calton’s office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him.  The detective’s face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured.

“Well!” he said, impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat.  “Where is she?”

“That’s just what I want to know,” answered the detective, coolly; “I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made enquiries about her.  It appears that she had been in the Army as a hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney.  She carried on her old life of dissipation, but, ultimately, her friend got sick of her, and the last thing they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums.  I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make enquiries, and let me know the result.”

“Ah! she has, no doubt, changed her name,” said Calton, thoughtfully, stroking his chin.  “I wonder why?”

“Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect,” answered Kilsip, drily.  “The straying lamb did not care about being hunted back to the fold.”

“And when did she join the Army?”

“The very day after the murder.”

“Rather sudden conversion?”

“Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursday night had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Army to get her religion properly fixed up.”

“The effects of fright, no doubt,” said Calton, dryly.  “I’ve met a good many examples of these sudden conversions, but they never last long as a rule—­it’s a case of ’the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,’ more than anything else.  Good-looking?”